


Your Best Kept Secret and Your Biggest Mistake

by LifeoftheUnwashedandUnderpaid



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 15:09:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LifeoftheUnwashedandUnderpaid/pseuds/LifeoftheUnwashedandUnderpaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John comes home to find Sherlock drunk after a case, he is forced to confront his own feelings about his flatmate and their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Side Effects of Consumption

After a long day of battling with Sherlock over a case, all John wanted to do was sit in the comfort of his flat and relax, even if it would only be for a few short hours when his roommate, the very same infuriating Sherlock Holmes, came home. Over the past few weeks, Sherlock had been investigating a particularly frustrating series of serial murders that involved various office secretaries, bank tellers, and something that resembled poisoned cinnamon. 

With each passing day, the case became more and more confusing, making Sherlock an even larger pain in the ass than normal. Never in his life had Holmes been this stumped by a case and it was taking a while for the information, that he might not know everything, to settle into his thick head. Watson was growing sick of Sherlock asking him to accompany him to a crime scene and help decipher clues then proceed to insult his lack of "perception of the obvious" which according to Sherlock included things such as chipped nails meant an unhappy marriage and a frayed shoelace meant the man was an adulterer. Watson had hoped this case would be solved quickly and the two could return to their previous lifestyle, but as time dragged on it became obvious that was not going to be the case. Sherlock's usual pretentious behavior would have been a welcomed change from the both mopey and pretentious man John was having to deal with now. 

When he reached the door to 221B Baker Street, Watson noticed before trying to unlock it that not only was the door unlocked, but it was also just slightly ajar. Watson's skin jumped. He had always craved adventure and a bit of fear, which was part of the reason he put up with Sherlock's mad habits and line of work for so long. Half hoping that whoever had opened the door was still inside the small London townhouse; Watson sauntered into the room, his heart beating into his throat. When he looked around the room, a thick mess of curly brown hair sat facing away from him in a small green armchair, a chair far too small to hold the entirety of a six-foot man whose ego was twice as large as he was. 

Sherlock Holmes sat in deep concentration staring out the window, not really seeing anything at all, and spinning a small dagger between his thumb and forefinger. The light from the window glinted off the silver blade of the dagger as it spun rapidly between the man's long fingers; Watson thought the small knife looked a bit like a child's toy in such large hands. He stood at the door for a moment, not making a sound, but he was sure Sherlock already knew that he was there; he was simply waiting for the right moment to acknowledge John's presence. At first, John was lost in the thought of how Holmes could have arrived home before him, seeing as he had left far before the man now sitting in front of him, hoping to avoid his company. Then he found his mind wandering to the knife on his fingertips, spinning in a mesmerizing fashion across the tip of the man's thumb. Something about his hands fascinated Watson to a degree that he could not understand. Suddenly the spinning stopped and the blade clattered to the floor, the sudden noise jerking Watson's mind back to reality and his eyes away from Sherlock's fingertips. The tall man swiftly got to his feet, walked over the coffee table, in his usual fashion, and made his way over to John, who was still trying to regain his thoughts after letting them travel to a place he was sure they should never have gone. 

As he got closer to him, John could smell the distinct and pungent scent of wine and something a bit stronger on Sherlock's breath. He could not decide whether he enjoyed the smell of it or if it worried him. Sherlock had never been one to drink and, come to think of it, Watson had never seen him drink at all, to consume this much alcohol seemed completely out of character, especially for a man who always wanted his brain to be in the most controllable state possible. The alcohol had not seemed to have had a large effect on Holmes, but he did seem a bit off, judging by the way he kept dipping a bit closer to Watson every few seconds while attempting to stand still. This simple drunken action seemed to give Watson the same type of jolt he received when he had thought there was someone in his flat. He did not know what to make of this, on the one hand, he greatly enjoyed the rush that was flowing through him, but on the other, it seemed quite unnatural. He did not like the thoughts that once again flooded his mind, so he quickly brushed them away and broke the suffocating silence.

"Sherlock why the hell are you drunk? Its four 'o clock in the afternoon. And how did you get home before me?"

Holmes shrugged, "I'm not drunk *hiccup* I just decided to come home early to have a moment to think."

"Yeah of course you're not drunk," Watson said in a disgruntled mutter, still watching Holmes stumble about in front of him. 

Watson had never been a man to drink inordinate amounts, but for the rare occasion, when he needed a drink, he had a small cabinet near the refrigerator stocked with some of the few necessities. He had some nice wine, a bottle of brandy, and a few other unopened alcohols he had accumulated from friends at holiday parties. He wandered over to his cabinet, planning to make himself a drink and sort out what was wrong with is companion. This odd behavior could go on no longer. 

"You won't find any," Sherlock said indifferently. Finally steadying himself against the kitchen doorframe. 

Sure enough when Watson opened the cabinet doors, he found every bottle open and more than half-gone. Sherlock had gone through enough alcohol to last a man a lifetime, yet he was still standing upright and making coherent sentences, John would never understand how he could manage a stunt like that. 

Feeling he needed a drink more than ever, John mixed whatever alcohols were left in one small glass and slumped into a kitchen chair. He tasted the mixture and quickly set it down again, making a face at the concoction. Without skipping a beat, Holmes swooped down, retrieved the glass, and took a sip, sliding down the wall and onto the floor as he did so. Following his lead John dropped to the floor as well, sitting only a few feet away from his companion. Watson could once again feel his skin crawling from the close proximity of their bodies. 

As he downed the glass, Sherlock's head hit heavily against the wall.

"Holmes what am I going to do with you?" Watson muttered, crawling over on his knees to sit closer to Sherlock, intensifying the feelings running up and down his body. 

"God, this bloody case," Sherlock shouted "There has to be a pattern and there has to be a mistake, but but … I just can't seem to find it. I've failed." 

Sherlock took in a sharp breath then turned his head away from John. He could see Holmes' whole body shudder and Watson knew that he had begun to cry. Watson had never been any good at comforting people; he always froze or walked away, leaving the person to comfort themselves or to cry alone. With Holmes though, it was different. John felt that there was nothing more that he wanted to do but to make this entire case dissolve. He wanted the old Sherlock back, the pompous, headstrong, bastard he used to live with, that was the Sherlock that John knew and he could not stand seeing this distraught stranger in front of him. Before he knew what he was doing, Watson reached over and covered Sherlock's hand with his own, finally closing the gap between the two, the soft warmth of his skin sent electric shocks pulsing to John's heart. Sherlock's hand released its tight fist and settled into John's; Watson took this relaxation as a sign that Sherlock wasn't going to kill him and moved closer to his companion, their torso and legs now touching. 

"John," Sherlock mumbled, half silent because he was speaking into his own bathrobe.

"What?" John said his voice calm and quiet trying to keep Sherlock from bursting into another bout of tears. This seemed to give Sherlock some semblance of confidence for now he turned around to face Watson on the floor. 

"Is there something wrong with me? Could I be sick or dying? Maybe that's why I can't figure out this case, because my brain has become addled from this horrible terminal illness or maybe . . ." Sherlock paused for a moment trying to come up with something else to say, anything else. 

"You're a doctor John; tell me what's wrong with me . . . please." 

At this last word, any small amount of resolve Watson had left in him broke down. He reached around Holmes' waist and clasped his shaking hands behind the man's back, trying to do anything to comfort him and make him happy. Sherlock's dropped his head onto John's shoulder and began sobbing harder than before; his whole body engulfed Watson's in a returned hug. Watson didn't know what to say, or what to feel for that matter. He thought he should be mad at the man for giving up, for stealing all his liquor, for being such a horrible ass all the bloody time but he just couldn't. The only thing he wanted to do was sit there and comfort him, to hold him in his arms. John was overcome with joy because Sherlock was with him in his arms, Sherlock needed him. Then again, he was hit with a pang of sorrow as he realized that Sherlock was drunk and they would never be able to sit together this way again. 

John pulled away from his friend as his insides started to melt from all of the mixed up feelings, but his skin longed for touch of Sherlock's body as he did so. He didn't know what to tell Holmes or how to make him believe that nothing was wrong with him. He knew he had to give him an answer though, when Sherlock's big, green, watery eyes stared up into his own, trying to decipher the answer before Watson even knew what it was. This was one of the things Watson thought was so fascinating about Sherlock, he always had some idea of what you were going to say or what you were thinking just by looking at you. It was like he could see straight through to your brain and find information that was tucked away or that you only just discovered.

Watson opened his mouth to say something then closed it, not finding the right words to say. A moment later, he did so again, still the right words did not come, but this time as he began to close his mouth he found that there was another man's lips pressed roughly against his own. John backed away mostly out of shock at the strange occurrence. Every nerve in his body was screaming with pleasure, anger, and downright confusion. John looked up at Sherlock from his place on the floor, his body shaking from the emotions rushing through him. Once again, deep green eyes stared back at him and John could no longer refuse his body what he now realized it had been craving for so long. He reached forward and placed a hand on Sherlock's rough jawbone, leaned closer; their warm bodies now pushed flat against each other, and pressed his lips to the man's in front of him. 

The reaction from both men was smoother this time. John, who was now expecting and dominating the kiss, shoved one of his hands into Sherlock's mess of curls, pulling him closer towards him, his other hand pressed into Sherlock's flannel clad thigh, giving Watson a strange amount of satisfaction. Holmes let his tall body slip over John's smaller frame and straddle the man's slender waist, letting his head be pulled closer by the tug of John's hand through his hair. Sherlock's lips parted and their kiss deepened as Watson's tongue adeptly pushed into Sherlock's mouth, exploring the newfound territory.

Watson had been with several women so he knew some tricks of the trade, but never had he been with a man. Yet nothing could have felt so easy, so natural. He was always forcing himself to take the next step with women, finding that he regretted it greatly afterward. With Sherlock, everything came smoothly and effortlessly, his body did anything and everything to get closer to Holmes without any hesitation. John's mouth moved away from Sherlock's, eliciting a small whimper of surprise, and began to make a trail of kisses down his jawbone and along his pale neck, stopping only to nip at the soft flesh around his prominent collarbones. Sherlock wrapped his hands around Watson's waist and began toying with the hem of his loose white shirt. One of Sherlock's rough hands slid under the thin fabric and began running up John's smooth chest, causing Watson to pause and take in a sharp breath of pleasure and surprise. 

This moment's hesitation allowed his muddled and lust filled brain to catch up with his actions. He realized that after the amount of alcohol that Sherlock had consumed there was no way that he would remember the events that had taken place that afternoon when he woke up tomorrow. The closest he would be to remembering anything would probably be a large and painful hangover and a rather nervous and awkward flat mate. John's heart sank and that terrible pang of sorrow came back to fill his chest. Never could they be together in the same way when Sherlock was sober. This would be no more than a painful memory that would stay with Watson forever. 

During this rather elongated pause, Holmes became increasingly impatient and tried to prod his lover to continue with a friendly nip at his earlobe. Watson looked back at his friend and knew that he could not go on if he wanted to have any hope of retaining his sanity. He broke apart their entangled limbs and stood up briskly from the floor. Sherlock stood up too, rather startled by the change of pace. 

"What's wrong, love?" Sherlock inquired innocently.

He stared into John's deep brown eyes and saw sorrow brimming in his soft features. Holmes leaned closer in an attempt to give a consoling hug, but John stood up and shot him a cold glance. 

"You don't get it do you," John said, all his anger finally reaching the surface.

"No of course you don't 'cause you're drunker than hell. For God's sake you should have bloody died from alcohol poisoning after the amount you've had to drink." Now Watson was actually shouting at Sherlock. A look of hurt passed over Sherlock's pale face as he stood, turning away from his companion, and staring at the wall directly behind him.

Watson let out an exasperated sigh at the childish motion. "You know this will mean nothing to you Holmes. No tomorrow, not next week, not next month, not ever because there will be nothing left for you to remember," his lips began to quiver as his resolve broke. 

"But Sherlock … it's going to mean something to me. It already means something to me, something that I can't explain, but if we continue, if I let you continue…" He broke off with a heaving breath, the idea brining back another sharp pain. 

"Holmes, against all odds I think that I'm in love with you …

and … and knowing that you will never be able to love me too.

God … It will break me Holmes." 

"I won't be able to forget like you. I will have to live with the pain of wondering what we could have been, how wonderful life would be."

"If we let this continue any further, I will never be able to look at you again without feeling this horrible need for you…

And if you were to ask what was wrong with me I would never be able to explain this to you simply because in any normal state you couldn't care less." Now John really was crying and he could not control it. All his anger and confusion had fallen apart into thick watery tears.

"How can you say that about me," Sherlock shouted as he turned around to face Watson again. 

"I will always care about you. Don't you understand that I love you too? Nothing could ever change the way I feel about you." Sherlock walked over and embraced his sobbing lover, holding him tightly to his chest and running a hand through his short blond hair. 

John pushed Sherlock away with enough force that the tall man stumbled backwards into the wall. Watson just glared at him, tears still rolling freely down his cheeks. 

"Don't touch me!" Watson shouted loud enough for the entire building to hear.

"Haven't you heard a word that I've been saying? You do not love me and you never will and as painful as it is …

This ends here, Sherlock!" 

With that John stormed out of the kitchen over to the coat rack in the living room. He grabbed his coat and his cane and moved to unlock the front door of the flat.

"Wait! Where are you going?" Sherlock cried. 

He darted out of the kitchen and over to Watson, he had started crying again too. He tried to barricade the door with his body but Watson slipped easily under his arm and opened the door. 

"I don't know where I'm going or if I could stand to come back to this wretched place," John screamed.

"But wait you can't leave me John … No please John don't leave me," Sherlock wailed at the top of his lungs. 

His knees gave out and he sunk to the floor, as his entire body was racked with heavy sobs. He looked up at Watson and saw that he was almost out the door. Sherlock jumped to his feet and tried to come after him.

"Don't you dare try to follow me Holmes!"

And with that he slammed that door and walked out into the streets of London.

Sherlock's entire body felt heavy and cold as the truth hit him. He had lost the one, and only person he had ever been able to love. 

He had lost him and there was no way he could ever get him back.


	2. Distraught and Disoriented

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has to step away and collect his thoughts, although perhaps muddling them a bit first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this chapter is so short. Another one is soon to come!

A bar in the outskirts of London, temporary home to several bums, a few women looking for work, and one very drunk and distraught John Watson. It was nearly midnight; John had been gone for hours, drinking himself into a pathetic, disoriented stupor. He couldn't have found his flat even if he wanted to. With the state he was in he would have to hope the bar wouldn't kick him out if he tried to stay the night. Noting the current patronage, he didn't think it was very likely. 

'What the hell am I going to do? I have to go back there and face him. I can't just move out. He'd want and explanation and I wouldn't be able to lie. He'd know.' 

John slumped his head against his folded arms and closed his eyes. 'I don't want to have to leave either. I can't find another flat mate. Not like him. Oh god what am I going to do?' "Oi blondie! If you're not going to buy another drink get out of my pub!" 

John had let his mind wander and eventually drift off into sleep, when the bar man roused him. It was two o'clock now and he didn't have any where to go. So another drink it was. Everything the bar offered tasted bitter, whether due to sleep or just bad alcohol John couldn't be sure. Every few drinks or so John would stare at nothing, thinking of work, or home, or Sherlock, more often than not Sherlock, that is until the bloody barman would come back to gripe at him to buy another drink. He continued this pattern until light filled the dank bar, around 7 o' clock. He paid his bills and left the building, feeling a heavy stiffness through his body, which only intensified in his leg, from lack of sleep or the small amount he got, sitting in a booth all night. 

Through the use of back passages that Sherlock had taught him, John found his way home rather quickly, now that he could think without the effects of alcohol hindering him. He still had no idea how he was going to confront Sherlock but anything would be better than spending more time drinking in that bar.


	3. The Return to Distruction

If his hands didn’t stop fumbling and shaking before he managed to unlock the door to the flat, John swore he was going to break something. He was a grown man for god’s sake, going to confront another grown man. Why the hell could he not even calm himself enough to fit his key into the lock on the flat door? With one final jab at the side of the knob, John huffed a deep breath and shoved his key back in his pocket, leaving the one hand in his pocket to fiddle with the key ring while the other hand extended to knock on the door. His first knock was far too quiet for anyone to hear, even Sherlock with his extremely attuned senses. He tried again, with a little more force but no more conviction. Still there was no response. 

“Sherlock, it’s me. Would you open up the door?” John called through the door, his voice steadier than he had anticipated. “Please?” He added a bit meekly as the door parted from its place in the wall, allowing just a sliver of the apartment wallpaper and the ties of a blue bathrobe to be seen. 

“Oh… um John. Come in?” 

Sherlock side stepped away from the door but didn’t pull it open any further, leaving John to push it open the rest of the way in order to enter. John slipped through the crack left open, pushing the door open only as much as was truly necessary to get by. He closed the door behind him made sure no excess noise was made in the process, afraid any sudden noises would startle the conversation into beginning far quicker than it needed to. 

“Something wrong with your key, Watson? You wouldn’t normally knock in order to gain entry to the flat.”

The brusque assuredness that wrapped Sherlock’s tone was altogether startling, a stark contrast to the submissive manner with which he began. John looked up to Sherlock’s face, finding a stony expression forced into watery, bloodshot eyes. His gaze wandered from red eyes, to damp cheeks, and to lips chewed raw, such blatant emotions painted across Sherlock’s face were more shocking than the words he said. Realizing he was staring only when Sherlock turned away, arms crossed, staring with great malice at the wall near the door, John pulled together his clumsy response. 

“Well you see… I had been out and, you know… the effects of my…night out, hadn’t really worn off yet, so you see I couldn’t get the key in the door. I wasn’t going to disturb you but then it all just kind of started verging on ridiculous when I tried for the fourteenth time and still couldn’t get the damn key in so I knocked and well now here we are and you see….”  
John’s rambling trailed off unsuccessfully and he turned his focus solely to that key ring still in his pocket, pushing each key back and forth around the ring, staring at his coat pocket as if he tried hard enough he would be able to see through it. He didn’t dare look back up at Sherlock, which would be like he was asking for this hellish silence to break. Where the silence was a dull aching, the words to follow could only be an agonizing laceration. 

They stood in perfect silence, save for the boiling of some liquid on the kitchen stove, which smelled suspiciously good, particularly for one of Sherlock’s experiments. The shift of John’s weight from one foot to the other was all it took to break the daze.

“I didn’t think you were going to come back,” Sherlock mumbled, leaning back to rest his weight on the wall, shoulders slumping forward as if those few words pulled all his emboldened energy from him.

“Um, well… I did come back, but you know…” John tried to explain himself, more calmly than he had when he left, more calmly than he expected he might be able to even in his alcohol deadened mind. Before his explanation could even begin, Sherlock cut him off abruptly, another bout of fire, flashing across his eyes. 

“Shut up John! Just shut up! I don’t want to hear it. I was weak and vulnerable and instead of sticking around and sorting through things like you should have done….like a friend would do… you left. With nothing more than don’t follow me? I had no fucking clue if you would show up again or if I had lost you forever. I still don’t know goddammit! So what do you want to explain now, how you didn’t mean to, how you are just going to pack your stuff and get out of my way, the martyr as always, like it was all your fault. What the fuck do you have to say to me?!” 

Sherlock pushed off the wall and stalked closer so he loomed over John, his height becoming far more intimidating as his voice grew louder with every word. Only when he stopped, and the silence returned, could John see just how heavily Sherlock was breathing and how painfully he was biting on his lip.

All of John’s words left his mind. He wanted nothing more but to let that dull silence fill the space again and erase the words that Sherlock threw at him. What could he say that wouldn’t pale in comparison? There was no logical reason for why he had left, other than the anger of the moment and his own damn feelings. He knew that Sherlock needed the protection of a friend more than anyone, no matter how much he attempted to deny it. There was no good excuse he could give that wouldn’t sound pathetically mundane. At this point, nothing could make matters tenser, trying to explain was the only option left open to him. He planned his words carefully in his head before he began, but the moment he opened his mouth, something unexpected slid from his tongue as those precious explanations fled from his mind.

“I love you Sherlock.” 

“You don’t love me John Watson. You want to appease the oncoming storm, make everything right again.” Sherlock’s gaze shifted with his words, the hurt that once tinged his expressions turned instantly to something loathsome and scathing. 

“John Watson, ever the hero.” He practically spat his last few words before turning away from John once again, stalking into the kitchen and adjusting whatever it was he was experimenting on with rough, shaking movements. 

Without looking back at John he began again, “I’m sure you have lost your respect for me John. What I did was immature to say the least, such lack of control over emotions which are usually easily contained. Despite that fact, I am not a child and you do not have to lie to me. It’s insulting.”

John floundered again for the proper thing to say. The fact that Sherlock was so incredibly wrong was both astounding and painful to hear. John approached Sherlock, who still stood slumped over his experiments, and placed a feather light touch of his finger tips to his back. Sherlock flinched away from the touch.

“Just don’t,” he hissed and quickly side stepped away from John.

“Sherlock please.”

“Just stop John.”

“Will you listen to me for one minute you git! I’m not lying to you Sherlock, I wouldn't do that to you and you know it!” John sighed a heavy breath into stunned silence which surrounded them after John’s outburst.

Steadying himself once again John trudged forward. “I shouldn't have run out on you and I am so very sorry for that. I didn't know how to handle what I was feeling, or really what I have been feeling. The thought of losing that moment with you forever, erased from your memory but imprinted in mine, god it was going to kill me. I was scared we would go back to what we have always been. I couldn't bear the thought of it. I know it’s no excuse but it is all I know to say, Sherlock.”

“I very obviously do remember this past evening, John. It’s just as clearly imprinted in my memory as it is in yours. Do you think I honestly wouldn’t want to remember something like that? That I would want to pretend it never happened? My mind does not bear the effects of alcohols and drugs as you seemed to assume it would, but even still, you cannot truly have believed I would remember nothing of that experience. Unless perhaps you were somehow hoping that would be the case.”

“Of course that was not the case Sherlock. Turn and face me properly will you, I can’t have this conversation meaningfully with your shoulder.”

John reached out to grasp Sherlock’s arm, pulling the detective to face him, despite attempts to jump away again. 

“Sherlock, I do love you, whether you believe me or not. I think I have always known it but didn’t accept it and certainly didn’t think you would reciprocate that feeling. If you really feel that same way towards me, all you would ever have to do is say the word and I am yours, completely yours.”

John released his hold of Sherlock’s arm, letting him drift away from his grasp, half expecting him to dart off to his room or even simply return to his experiment, half grasping at threads of possibility. John lowered his eyes to the floor, waiting to hear Sherlock’s rush of movement to escape. Long pale fingers brushed across John’s wrists, an almost experimental touch, trailing down the skin and gripping tighter as they reached John’s hands. 

“John, I don’t want things to be normal again,” Sherlock breathed, letting the words diffuse in the air like cigarette smoke.

“Okay” John whispered, pushing the smoke of words back towards Sherlock.

Something about that moment was tangible, ensnaring, altogether inescapable. Neither moved, afraid of disturbing that perceptible emotion hanging between them. However gradually the movement occurred, to John it felt like being hit with a train, as Sherlock brushed his lips against John’s own.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading! Any comments or suggestions for later chapters are more than welcome. Also if anyone would like to be a beta for this fic please let me know, it would be immensely helpful as I am terrible at editing my own work. Enjoy your feels for chapters to come.


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